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2012-08-15 Hitting Them At Home
Ever since a tragic event that took place on US soil almost eleven years ago tensions have been at various levels of high, making people nervous, scared and confused as to how such a thing could have been allowed to happen here. It's something that has kept the govenment on their toes and prompted them into moving into action faster once a threat to the security of the US and the world as a whole is made known. Information about a weapons depot somewhere in the desert somewhere in the Middle East was passed along down the line, stopping when it reached its intended 'target'. SHIELD, who is made known about the 'clear and present danger', is swift to send in some of their best men. War Machine is also called into mobility, his assistance asked for thanks to the sheer firepower the man packs. Currently above the target in a transport jet, all that's needed is the green light to be given. Here's for hoping everything will go smooth. "PATTON, give me the rundown," Jim barks. "Yes, sir!" his AI replies. "Repulsors are fully charged! The MAW is spun up! All other systems are go! Status is green, sir!" "Insertion in ten seconds, Agent," Rhodey says to Sharon. "Brace yourself. I'll take out their surface-to-air munitions, then we'll hit them with everything we've got. Since we aren't officially here, let's teach these bastards a lesson." That said, Jim Rhodes activates his faceplate and transforms fully into the War Machine. His automatic grenade launcher and missile pod slide into place over his shoulder. He flexes his hands, metal fingers encased in metal armor. No sensation of touch, but still a need to grab and rip and tear. A need to destroy. Not just because they're bad guys, but because they're terrorists. And he really, really hates terrorists. Especially since Dubai. He triggers a hatch and jumps out the side of the aircraft. A half-instant after he deploys, he targets all four of the site's SAM launchers and fires salvos of high-explosive missiles at each one. This is the first time Sharon has had the honor of fighting along side Colonel Rhodes and she can not help but to feel the same giddy excitement she did the first time she fought along side of Cap during the press conference, leaving her feel a bit weak in the knees and with butterflies in her gut as she watches him suit up and then exit the aircraft. "Alright," she calls out to the few agents who have been assigned to this little party, "get on your feet. We're going to be jumping in three minutes." The jump master calls out, holding up three fingers, prompting the others who are along for the ride to do the same, the same men who struggle to their feet under the weight of parachutes, equipment and weapons. Sharon's already and poised by the hatch. Almost time. The SAM sites are taken out swiftly although one does manage to get one of it's missiles in the air, its booster flaring red as it activates. Should be easy enough to dodge, assuming that it isn't a heat-seeker. The chest plates of War Machine's armor retract, revealing dozens of tiny tubes lined up in rows. Six dartlike projectiles are fired and streak through the air toward the SAM. 'DANGER - THERMITE ANTI-MATERIAL ROUND' is written on the side of each one in minute print. Just in case they aren't effective, War Machine is already changing course, pushing his jet boosters and repulsor stabilizers to put himself between the missile and the transport. The missile isn't the most effective of weapons and is quickly taken out; Rhodes' defenses are much more advanced and able to hit their mark, destroying their target with a shower of burning fuel and shards of metal. Very timely as the SHIELD members are shuffling to get into line behind Agent 13, the clock ticking down swiftly. "... five, four, three..." the jump master is in his place by the hatch, the men listening as intently as they're watching, waiting. "...one! GO, GO, GO!" Sharon hurls herself out of the door and the others follow suit, a stream of bodies that fall swiftly towards the earth only to then have their descent slowed as their chutes open. With the transport's payload delivered and her crew safe from harm, War Machine turns his attention to covering the descending agents. One by one, smaller missile sites, machine gun emplacements, and other dangers light up on his HUD. He peppers each one with a burst of 20mm grenades from the launcher on his shoulder. There's nothing subtle about his attack. Raw damage. Explosions. Shock and awe. This is what he brings to the table. Getting their feet back on the ground takes longer than is comfortable and by the time they do a couple of the agents wind up winged by stray bullets. Nothing life threatening or bad enough to take them out of combat but it still leaves Sharon with a sense of dread. "Alright, let's get in and blow this place the fuck up," she shouts out over the comms, this spoken at the same time she's shrugging out of the pack's harness, the mess of cord and nylon allowed to stay on the sand in a heap. The terrorists are mobilized and on the defensive, some armed with rifles and pistols while a couple are armed with RPGs, those meant for War Machine. The SHIELD members are outnumbered about four to one but even then they are picked of methodically, the sand swiftly becoming stained in red. When he and Sharon's team is threatened by enemy fire, War Machine flies directly above the massed terrorists and cuts his jets. His landing sends a tremble through the earth and thoroughly surprises the ragtag rebels. "Hi," he greets them. "I'm here to ruin your day." Then he's lashing out, armored fists and feet swinging like hammers. A few seconds later, he's battered his way free of the group and rejoined his team. "Good insertion," he calls. "Nobody hit bad? OutSTANDing. Well, then. Let's destroy them." There's a quick sitrep given by the men, all present and accounted for. That gets Sharon to grin while she shoulders a rifle, more than ready to use it. "Hey War Machine," she says while taking aim at a man whose day is now officially over, his metaphorical time card punched when he's shot between the eyes. Nice, clean. Effecient. "We'll take care of this. You go ahead and take the depot out. Just... you know. Give us a bit of a warning if the explosions are going to be big, huh? I'd like time to get the hell out of dodge. Like 13, the other SHIELD personnel are good. Very good. So much for the odds being stacked against them because they're plowing down the terrorist cell members like one might cut through tissue with a new razor blade. Bodies are left where they fall, the desert now an all-you-can-eat buffet for whatever scavengers might make this part of the world their home. "The explosions are going to be big," War Machine deadpans, his vocalizer turning the words into a cold, grating statement that might or might not be a joke. Then he's off, arcing high over the battlefield. He takes a few seconds to interpret the information being fed into his HUD by PATTON, his targeting computer, and his sensor array. This depot is a veritable treasure trove of munitions and supplies for terrorist activities. With no time to waste, War Machine targets a stack of crates that are filled with small arms, a self-propelled artillery unit, and a rack of rocket launchers. PHTOOF-PHTOOF-PHTOOF! He fires three more high-explosive missiles. With all available ammunition depleted, the launcher slides back over War Machine's shoulder and reforms into his utility backpack. Rhodey's explosions are indeed big and are made all the more so as caches of weapons go off, lending a rather patriotic, Fourth of July quality to the combat. Of course it causes the enemy to scatter but the majority of them get caught in the fireballs that come off of the crates and surrounding buildings, leaving charred corpses and mangled masses that are almost recognizable as human. What few survive that get mowed down, shot by Rhodey's comrades at arms. "Looks like there's one more building to the northeast of here," comes a voice, male and young. "It's not far... maybe 1500 meters." The coordinates are given and there's a sudden shift in motion, the armed and armored figures moving in that direction. "We got this one, War Machine," Carter announces, that said as she assumes his ammo's spent. "Could use some of those intimidation tactics of yours, if you're able to, though." As quick as he disappeared, Rhodey is back among his comrades. "Somebody call for an exterminator?" Then he's on the offensive, only this time he's got his chainsaws engaged. All four of the two-foot long blades pop out from the sides of his arms, rev up, and get to work. As gruesome as it sounds, it's more methodical and practiced than anything else. Like a lumberjack felling trees. "Go ahead," he calls to Sharon over the comm as he stoically accepts an RPG blast to the chest. He returns fire with a barrage from his automatic grenade launcher. "I'll hold the line." The ratta-tat-tat of full auto rifle fire adds a strange, macabre counterpoint to the crunching of bones and the death screams as more and more of the foes are killed. One winds up with a chunk of his throat torn out, the bloody mass landing at his feet before he topples over, while a couple others are all but cleaved into half. Not a pretty sight and definitely something that might turn the stomachs of even the most hard-bitten combat veterans. The fighting distracts the newer agents from being ill or freaking out, however. Thankfully. As the fighting goes on the demolitions experts are busy doing what they're good at. Packs of C4 are attached to strategic places on the building once they're in position and those are then wired into the detonators, it taking what seems like forever to Sharon but, in reality, takes no time at all. "We're ready..." the head demo expert announces. "Bug out.." Sharon's got herslf a bit busy with the fight but she voices her understanding, giving the command to get the hell out so the explosives can be tripped. Meanwhile, War Machine has gotten himself surrounded. Which is exactly where he wanted to be. "Now you're all in big trouble," he warns them. His gatling repulsor slides over his shoulder and into place, taking up the hardpoint where his missile pod had be mounted a few moments ago. Aided by his suit's targeting computer, the weapon is capable of firing in a near-360 degree arc. And it does. Oh, it does, laying down thousands of rounds of concussive energy, sending weapons and enemies and divots of earth flying in all directions. The apex of Rhodey's latest attack coincides with the explosions that are triggered once the button on the control device is pushed, causing a rush of heat and a large gout of flame to shoot up from the now-ruined storage facility. Soon sand and little bits of flesh rain down upon them. What few terrorists that have managed to survive throw up their hands, surrendering. With their work done, Rhodey triggers his faceplate, retracting it and baring his bizarre combination of smooth skin, cold metal, and glowing cybernatics. "Well," he says, retracting his saws and dusting off his hands. "That'll do." There aren't many prisoners left to take, so overseeing them is a mercifully brief process. When the last of them has been processed, he singles out Sharon carter and offers her a wave. "You and your people performed admirably, Agent. Especially during that final push. I'll be noting that in my report." There is a desire to salute Jim but Sharon refrains, it being something that might not exactly be safe to do while still out in enemy territory. "Thank you, sir," she says, allowing her respect to be shown by tone instead of gesture. "I look forward to work with you again." The news of this will be covered up, perhaps written up as a rebel attack. The news channels don't need to know the truth of this, nor does the citizens of the world. All that is important is that they know they will be able to sleep safe. Category:Logs Category:RPLogs